


Non-Standard Operating Procedures

by grydo2life



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Unusuals
Genre: Clint Barton is Jason Walsh, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life/pseuds/grydo2life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Casey stares. “…is that a bow?”</i>
  <br/><i>“Yep.”</i>
  <br/><i>“…you keep a bow under your bed, and all you can say is ‘yep’?”</i>
  <br/><i>“Yep.”</i>
</p>
<p>Or, the one where Walsh isn't really Walsh and Casey is just along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non-Standard Operating Procedures

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago and it is entirely the fault of feelschat that I finished it at all. (Y'all are the worst influence ever, I swear... *hugs*). 
> 
> Credit for the title goes to [thefrogg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg).
> 
> Enjoy!

It starts out like a fairly regular day. In retrospect, Casey thinks that probably should have tipped her off that something big was going to happen. She’s learned a lot of things since joining the 2nd Precinct, but one of the biggest is that nothing is ever normal there. But she’s just finished working a bad double shift and it takes just about everything in her to make it to the diner without passing out standing up, so she thinks it’s okay that she’s a little off her game.

Walsh just looks amused as she collapsed into one of the stools at the counter and pours her a cup of the sludge he calls coffee. Then he makes her a breakfast that she manages to stomach three bites of before she can’t suppress her gag reflex anymore. She waits until his back is turned to push the plate away.

He’s in the middle of telling her some awful but hilarious story involving Kowalski and a bunch of strippers when her ears catch the sound of squealing tires outside.

“The hell…?” Walsh says, edging towards the front to look out.

He only gets a second’s worth of a glance before there’s the unmistakable sputter of gunfire outside. The glass cracks in spiderweb patterns at the sudden assault and Casey swears as she hits the floor, gun in her hand before she even thinks of drawing it. 

“Down!” Walsh hollers at her. 

He’s still at the front, crouching now, except he’s got his keys in his hand and his fingers are steady as he snatches one off the ring and slides it into the lock of the door. The windows hold, but Casey covers him anyway as he ducks away, the door locked, and heads for the back. 

They stay close to the ground behind the wall that separates Walsh’s room from the rest of the diner. Casey checks her safety and clip, the heavy pelting still going in the background.

“Jesus Christ.” She breathes. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline already pumping through her veins. “Reinforced glass?”

“Yeah,” Walsh says. He peers back around the wall and then ducks back a second later. “It’s not going to hold for long, though.”

“Who the fuck are they?” She demands, and when she gets no answers, adds, “I saw masks. Uniforms. Some kind of patch. Looked like—”

“A really weird octopus?” Walsh supplies, still not looking at her. “Yeah.” He scowls, like he’s thinking about something he doesn’t like. Then he heaves a sigh and heads over to his bed. “Fucking Christ,” he mutters, lifting the sheets over the edge and reaching under it. 

“Walsh.” Casey says, voice sharp and serious. “What the hell is going on?” 

Walsh slides out some kind of weapon’s case, reaches for the clasps holding it shut and flicks them open. “Okay,” he says, and then he _looks_ at Casey, and there’s something in his eyes she’s never seen before. “Remember when you told me Sergeant Brown was having you look into me? And I told you that really sad story about my girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“It was all bullshit.” Walsh lifts the top of the case and reaches inside. “My name is not Jason Walsh, I’m not a New York City detective, and I never played first base for the Yankees.” He pauses. “Although that would have been kind of cool.” He pulls out something sleek and black, sharp metal that’s folded in on itself. In a move that screams of years of practice, he rolls his arm out sharply and the sides snap up.

Casey stares. “…is that a bow?”

“Yep.”

“…you keep a bow under your bed, and all you can say is ‘yep’?”

“Yep.” He tosses her a grin, and something in her relaxes, because it’s familiar and she knows him, even if, apparently, she doesn’t. He pulls something else out from under the bed, and she has no idea what it is until he’s loading arrows – fucking _arrows_ , seriously? -- into it. 

In the background, there is the sudden sound of glass breaking. Casey flinches at it. Walsh – not Walsh -- sets a steadying hand on her shoulder. 

“Stay down.” He tells her with authority. “Follow me. Watch my back.”

She nods, once, and he pulls away, shoulders his quiver and then leads her to the back door. He gives her a count of three, and then they’re both bursting out. 

The shots are almost instantaneous, heavy fire hailing down on them from all side, and Casey suddenly understands why Walsh had grabbed his bow instead of his handgun. She’s seen him shoot before, knows he’s good with a gun – better than she could ever hope to be – but with the bow, he’s incredible. She barely has time to get someone in her sights before they’re down, an arrow in their neck, shoulder, chest. He nocks and fires with a sort of precision she’s never seen before and things are over in seconds.

“Come on,” Walsh says when he’s certain they’re clear. “There’s going to be more. We’ve got to move.”

He keeps his bow string taunt and leads her through the alley, keeping his eyes high while Casey covers the lower field of view. They duck through side streets and hop several fences in a winding, backtracking path and encounter no one along the way, but Walsh doesn’t loosen his draw until they’re five blocks away.

“Did we lose them?” Casey asks. They pause by a trash can, where Walsh returns the arrow to his quiver and slings the bow over his shoulder. Then he unwinds the grease-stained apron still around his waist and dumps it in with the flies. 

“For now.” He says. The look on his face is intense, focused, and unfamiliar. Casey doesn’t like it. “They’ll try to find us, though. We need to get out of here.” He looks around, eyes drawn to the front of the alley where it meets the busy sidewalk. Then he says to Casey, “Do you have your cellphone? I left mine back at the diner.”

She does and hands it over without hesitation. “Calling for backup?”

He gives her a wry smile and slides his fingers over the number-pad without looking. “Something like that.” He turns away and lifts the phone to his ear. After a brief pause, he rattles off something – a string of numbers and words that sounds like some kind of military code from the movies. “Patch me through to Coulson.” He says. There’s a pause and Casey spots a flash of impatience in his expression. “Yes, I know it’s not a secure fucking line. Just _do it_.”

He lets out a heavy breath and for a moment he’s silent. Then, “Coulson. My cover’s blown.” He twists around to look at Casey, and he looks concerned. “I need pick-up ASAP, for me and a plus one.” Casey can’t hear this Coulson person from where she’s standing, but Walsh mumbles something in affirmative and then hangs up. 

Then he drops the phone into the trash can with the apron.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises when she starts protest. She snaps her mouth shut. “Put your gun away. We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves.” He says, leading her towards the walking traffic passing by the alley’s entrance.

“Yes,” she says, the sarcasm comforting. “Because carrying a bow around mid-day in New York isn’t going to do that.” She holsters her weapon and follows anyway.

They slip into the crowd of pedestrians with ease. Walsh gets odd looks and a wide berth, but they’ve only been walking half a minute before he pulls Casey into an antique shop. The inside smells like dust and musk and he slips the clerk behind the counter a twenty before they find a pair of old, rickety chairs hidden away among the shelves and sit down. 

“So,” Casey says, when her heart has stopped racing and her hands are no longer shaking. “A bow.”

Walsh (not-Walsh) glances down at his lap, where he’s still got his hands wrapped around said weapon, then back up at her. “…yeah.” She keeps looking at him and he lifts one shoulder in a weak shrug. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“Right.” She says. “Your thing. Not Walsh’s thing. Because you’re not Walsh.” He stays silent, letting her connect her own dots. Looking at him with a frown, she asks bluntly, “Who are you?”

He gives her a tight smile and tells her, “Clint Barton.”

She can’t help it; she giggles. It’s sounds like a ridiculous name, the kind you find in comic books and bad movies, but then, everything is feeling a little bit ridiculous to her right now. “Seriously?

The smile melts into something a little more honest. “I also go by Hawkeye.”

And god, that’s even worse. She laughs, only the tiniest edge of hysteria to it, and says, “How is this my life?”

Barton pats her on the shoulder sympathetically. “If it helps, it could have been a lot worse.”

“ _How?_ ”

“There could have been mutated frogs involved.”

Casey stares, mouth hanging open. And then she catches the way the corner of his mouth is tilting out and realizes that she _knows_ that glimmer in his eyes. “Oh, you bastard!” She punches his arm as hard as she can, given the angle. Barton flinches away from the blow with a cackle. 

“Hey, that was a real thing!” He tells her, grinning as he promises, “And I will tell you all about it once you’ve signed about a dozen non-disclosure agreements.” Casey laughs in spite of herself. Barton’s look softens, just a bit, and he nudges her with his elbow gently. “It’s still me, kid.”

Casey nods, surprising herself with how much she believes him. There’s still a wedge of tension between them, the knowledge that he’s been lying to her this whole time heavy on her shoulders, but it feels easier to bear now. They have a lot to discuss - and they _will_ be discussing it if Casey has anything to say about it - but for the moment, she’s content enough to wait for her answers.

“So, explain the bow to me.” 

Well, some of them, anyway.


End file.
